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SOPHIE WAS ON MY DOORSTEP at nine this morning, her father grunting as he unloaded a small trunk and a large box from his cart. The grey mare shackled to the cart wheezed in sympathy. The roads around here are notoriously steep. I exchanged a brief greeting with Mr Le Clerc before he and Sophie manhandled her possessions upstairs. It looked as if she planned to stay and I could only hope she proved a good worker. On their return downstairs her father stopped and shook my hand.
‘M’dame Sarchet, thank you for offering my girl work. Her ma and me will miss her, but it’s only right she should start to make her own way and we’ve been assured by Suzanne that she’s found a good mistress in you. Best be off,’ he added gruffly, with a quick squeeze of Sophie’s shoulder. She was all smiles, as if leaving home for the first time was something to celebrate. I remembered when I left my home, the fear and grief causing me to stumble as I mounted the cart taking me to the harbour. With all my family dead there was nothing to stay for and a French friend of my father’s had written from Guernsey, saying they needed a governess for their daughter.
Mr Le Clerc turned round as he picked up the reins.
‘Nearly forgot. Please accept our condolences, m’dame. It’s hard to be widowed so young. Good day to you.’ He clicked his tongue and the mare shuffled forward.
So began the first day of Sophie Le Clerc’s employment.
Later this morning M’dame Drouet arrived and was shown into the parlour by a smiling Sophie. I asked her to bring us coffee and she bobbed briefly and left.
‘Well, it seems the girl has met with your approval. I’m glad, as that will relieve you of any physical labour, allowing you to recover your strength,’ m’dame said as she kissed my cheeks. She studied my face, adding, softly, ‘It’s uncanny how much you resemble dear Léopoldine, even more so now you have regained some colour in your face.’ After making herself comfortable on the sofa she asked me if I still felt able to begin my copying duties the following day.
‘I know we promised not to rush you, my dear, but I’m plagued with problems with my eyes at the moment and need to rest them as much as possible. M’sieur Hugo is being pressured by his publisher for the next part of Les Misérables and I hate letting him down.’
She did look strained, her eyes quite puffed up. And the thought of being needed on such an important manuscript sent a thrill down my spine.
‘Of course I’ll start tomorrow. As you see, I’m much improved and writing will not be a strain.’
Her face lifted.
‘Thank you, ma chère, I’ll send a message to him and let you know what time you are to report to Hauteville House. You’ll be provided with pen, ink and paper and, for the first few days, we thought it best if you work at my house in case you have any questions. It will take time to decipher his handwriting,’ she said, smiling, ‘and I want to be certain you’re not making errors before you are left on your own.’
The enormity of my task hit home. If I made a mistake, it might ruin the book! M’sieur Hugo’s reputation might be compromised. My throat grew dry at the thought. I coughed.
‘Will I then complete the copying here once you are satisfied with my competence?’
She shook her head.
‘No, that would not be possible. I am the only person allowed to have the manuscripts in my house and other copyists, and there have been a few, work at Hauteville House. There can be no risk of such valuable work being...mislaid.’
I understood. An unscrupulous person might seek to sell sections of his writings for financial gain. I was, quite rightly, to be always supervised.
We continued to talk while we drank our coffee and then she left, after a brief embrace.
After informing Sophie of her tasks for the day, I ventured out, keen for some fresh air. The day was mild and the soft white clouds allowed the sun to shine through, warming my face as I walked down Hauteville and into Horn Street towards the Town centre. I avoided Market Street, glad that Sophie was now responsible for purchasing our provisions, leaving me free to wander at leisure for as long as suited me. Initially I made for the harbour, cutting through Fountain Street and in front of the Town church, barely visible amongst the encroaching buildings and tenements and along Coal Quay. A lonely rigged sailing ship was moored in one corner while men scurried down the gangplank laden with crates and barrels. It was becoming less usual to see old sailing ships since the advent of steamers. The sight of ships and sailors brought a lump to my throat and I realised it was too soon for me to view their comings and goings with the joy it used to instil in me. Keeping my head averted, I turned left up Pier Steps to arrive in the relative safety of High Street and its shops.
Turning left, I paused outside Madame Chofin’s, a fellow Frenchwoman and milliner who came over from Jersey with M’sieur Hugo and whose hats were much admired. Arnaud had purchased one as a surprise for my last birthday and I treasured it and looked forward to wearing it when my mourning was over. For the moment I was forced to wear an indifferent black bonnet from the second-hand shop in Market Street. I gazed longingly at the confections of feathers and lace in pastel shades suited to spring. Women bustling past had swapped their heavy dark winter ensembles for neutral lightweight fabrics of cotton, silk and wool. With a deep sigh I tore myself away from the window and walked down High Street towards the Town church. My destination was Mr Barbet’s stationers and booksellers a few doors down. I was an infrequent customer, but he still recognised me and wished me a good morning with a slight bow. I returned the greeting and asked if he had any copies of M’sieur Hugo’s Les Contemplations.
‘Of course, m’dame. It is one of our best sellers. I’ll fetch you a copy.’
He disappeared behind a nearby set of shelves and emerged with a plain green leather-bound book.
‘We do have more elaborate editions if you prefer?’ he asked quietly, his eyes taking in my mourning garb.
I flicked through the book and although it was quite plain, it was nicely printed and bound and would serve my purpose.
‘This will suit me, thank you. And I need a journal, if I may...’ I waved my hand in the direction of a display of such on a table behind me.
He nodded and I took my time with my choice. From a young girl I have kept a journal religiously, writing in bed by the light of a candle before going to sleep. I have continued the habit since arriving in Guernsey and my current journal is nearly filled. It is unlikely anyone would ever read my humble scribblings, but no matter, it is a useful exercise for me. I chose a thick red cloth-bound journal with heavy cream paper, similar to that in use.
Mr Barbet wrapped my purchases in brown paper and string and I counted out my francs. It is an extravagance to buy such objects, but my heart felt lighter at the thought of immersing myself in M’sieur Hugo’s lines of poetry. They would be balm to my grieving soul. Leaving the shop I came face to face with a neighbour who was kind enough to ask after my health. We had never exchanged many words but she is a pleasant, middle-aged lady who seems genuinely shocked to hear of my misfortunes. As we parted she told me to call on her at any time if I needed either company or some assistance. I was happy to accept such an offer and went on my way wondering if I had been too quick to judge people. Clutching my precious parcel, I retraced my steps homewards, determined to be more open-minded in future. I have been guilty of keeping people at arm’s length since my arrival from France and must try to mix more or face a lonely future.
I rose early this morning, eager to start my new employment. I dressed with care, even though I loathed my mourning dress adorned with black crepe, and attached my black widow’s cap. Not being religious and without family, I saw no need to hide behind a traditional crepe veil. Queen Victoria, of Great Britain, overcome with grief after the untimely death of her husband, Prince Albert last year, has been in the deepest mourning and set the strictest of instructions for those about her. Fortunately, I am of no consequence and do not need to abide by such rules. The royal couple visited Guernsey only three years ago, before I arrived here, and were, I understand, greeted warmly by the islanders. A bronze statue of the prince has been commissioned and is to be erected by the harbour to honour him. My thoughts turned to my own lost beloved, threatening to disturb the calm I needed to meet M’sieur Hugo and I hurried downstairs for a hasty breakfast prepared by Sophie. Fortified, I set out.
Mere yards separated our houses but Hauteville House is much the grander, with many windows facing onto the street and a black arched doorway surrounding the almost forbidding black painted door. For a moment I hesitated, wondering if I should approach by a servants’ entrance. As I stood on the step the door swung open and a woman dressed in housekeeper’s garb called out, ‘M’dame Sarchet? Come in, you’re expected.’
I followed her into a hallway the like of which I’d never seen before, nor since. It reminded me of a cathedral. A carved dark oak portal spanned the hall, topped with bottle-bottom panes of glass and engraved with lettering I could not decipher. Beyond stretched a passageway towards a rear door, lined with oak cupboards and further on, displays of china. A staircase ran off to the left and the woman beckoned me on to a room on the right and ushered me inside. I gasped. The high ceiling and two walls were covered in intricate, and probably antique, tapestries. I had never seen such richness before and stood like a gawking schoolgirl as my gaze tried to take it all in.
‘You’re to wait here and m’sieur will be along presently,’ the woman said and left.
Glad of the chance to explore further, I became engrossed in the huge oak carved panelling on the third wall, inset with an unusual porcelain fireplace. The whole effect was both overpowering and alien, unlike anything one would expect to find in an ordinary street in St Peter Port.
‘Are you admiring my handiwork, ma petite?’
I turned, startled by m’sieur’s silent entry. He stood a few feet away, his hands in his pockets as he watched me. I dropped a swift curtsy.
‘Indeed, m’sieur. You are responsible for this intricate carving?’
He moved forward, waving his hands at the panelling.
‘Yes, I love working with my hands and have carved most of what you see in the house and designed everything. A real labour of love, n’est ce pas?’ He stood by me, his eyes twinkling.
I nodded, and listened while he pointed out various panels and the statue of Saint Paul holding a book, a statue of Saint John looking towards heaven and the engraved names of Socrates, Columbus, Washington among others. As we encompassed the room, he explained the inspiration behind his designs.
‘It may be hard for you to believe, but this is the first house I have ever owned, and I wanted to create something so unique, and so rich in design to pay homage to those I consider to be geniuses in their field, whether it be literature, like myself,’ he said, striking his chest, ‘philosophy or discovery, for example. This is my temple to genius, if you like, and has proved to be as great a passion as my own writing.’
‘You leave me speechless with admiration, m’sieur. You have accomplished so much.’ I felt even more insignificant in comparison, and again wondered if I was worthy to be entrusted with copying out his words of genius.
‘We are all called on in different ways, are we not? And you, how are you now? Your cheeks have more colour, I think.’ His stare was so intense, I felt blood rise to my face. It must be odd for him to be reminded of his daughter.
‘Better, thank you, and glad to have something to occupy me now...now I’m alone.’ I bit my lip, determined not to give into tears in front of him.
‘And I will keep you busy. Come, follow me.’ He led the way through a door in the corner into a room lit by large windows, bright after the dimness of the room of tapestries. Again a heavy carved oak structure filled one wall, but I had no time to examine it as M’sieur Hugo picked up a pile of papers on the table. He explained what was required of me and asked if I could decipher his writing, handing me a page of his manuscript. There were crossings out and scribbles in the margins, and as I read it out he nodded or shook his head according to whether or not I was right. After spending some time explaining his method of working so that I might understand better how to transcribe his writings, he collected up the manuscript, a bundle of blank paper, and pens.
‘Suzanne is here to help carry these to M’dame Drouet’s where you will begin your work. In a few weeks’ time, it will suit me if you work here. You will have a wonderful view over the garden and will be undisturbed. Is that agreeable to you, ma petite?’
To work in these hallowed, extraordinary rooms! How could I not be pleased?
‘Yes, m’sieur. Your...your family is not here?’
He snorted.
‘They are not. My son Charles is now settled in Brussels and my wife and my other son Victor have recently left to visit him and confer with my publishers. I am deserted!’ He waved his arms theatrically, as if in despair, but having seen him with M’dame Drouet, I thought it unlikely he missed his wife.
I nodded in sympathy and picked up the bundled paper and pens and he led the way back to the hall. Suzanne was standing near the impressive portal, eyeing the carvings. As we approached she dropped a curtsy to M’sieur Hugo and took hold of half of the papers from me. As we left he inclined his head towards me, saying he looked forward to seeing me again soon. I managed a smile and followed Suzanne down the steps, turning left to go up the road towards La Fallue. Neither of us spoke as we walked, my own head full of what I’d seen and heard that morning. I dearly wanted to explore that house some more and hoped to do so in the future. My eyes had been opened to another world and I wanted to be a part of it.